


Maketh

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [272]
Category: thunderbirds are go
Genre: Gen, trans!Alan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:00:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>so androgynosaur has some <a href="http://androgynosaurus.tumblr.com/post/146017603694/a-while-back-writerdarkflamespyre-asked-me-if-i">amazing arts and headcanon</a> about trans!Alan, and I ran with the one "Lady P taking him to London to get his first ever suit fitted"</p><p>Title from the saying "clothes maketh the man"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maketh

Lady P calls him _darling,_  but she calls all of his brothers that.  In anyone else’s mouth, it’d feel like a slap, a reminder.

But here, in the back of Fab One, Parker humming tunelessly up front, it feels almost comfortable.  Outside, London flashes by, all noises and colour and effortless style.

This is Lady P’s world; Alan is just visiting.

“Ah,” Lady P says, uncrossing her legs with a grace that a lifetime ago Alan had tried to want to envy.  “Here we are.”

Alan is chivvied through the door Parker holds open and into a world that is dark, masculine wood and dark green leather.  “My friend is here for his fitting,” Lady P tells the dour-faced man who had silently appeared at her side.

Alan bites his lip and screws his eyes closed as he strips down to his shorts and tanktop.  He knows the ridge of his binder is obvious under the thin fabric of his shirt, but the tailor doesn’t blink, doesn’t murmur, doesn’t pause as he flicks his tape measure along Alan’s limbs and around his waist.

Six weeks later – _craftsmanship can’t be rushed, darling_  – Alan stares at his reflection, at the squareness of his shoulders down the darkly dappled fabric to the narrowness of his waist.  Beside him, Lady P is holding up swatches of silk, trying to find the perfect tie as the tailor murmurs to her about cut and darts and fit.  “The blue or the grey, Alan darling?  You’re the one that has to wear it, after all.”

Alan tears his eyes away from his reflection.  “The blue,” he says, decisive.  The colour is vibrant, like the dawn of a new summer’s day.

Lady P’s hands are cool as she smooths down his lapels and steps back to take in the effect.  “The blue,” she agrees.  “Very handsome.”


End file.
